“Two!” interrupts a voice—not his. Both turning, startled, behold—Father Rogier!
Volume One—Chapter Twelve.
A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.
Father Rogier is a French priest of a type too well known over all the world—the Jesuitical. Spare of form, thin-lipped, nose with the cuticle drawn across it tight as drum parchment, skin dark and cadaverous, he looks Loyola from head to heel.
He himself looks no one straight in the face. Confronted, his eyes fall to his feet, or turn to either side, not in timid abashment, but as those of one who feels himself a felon. And but for his habiliments he might well pass for such; though even the sacerdotal garb, and assumed air of sanctity, do not hinder the suspicion of a wolf in sheep’s clothing—rather suggesting it. And in truth is he one; a very Pharisee—Inquisitor to boot, cruel and keen as ever sate in secret Council over an Auto da Fé.
What is such a man doing in Herefordshire? What, in Protestant England?
Time was, and not so long ago, when these questions would have been asked with curiosity, and some degree of indignation. As for instance, when our popular Queen added to her popularity, by somewhat ostentatiously declaring, that “no foreign priest should take tithe or toll in her dominions,” even forbidding them their distinctive dress. Then they stole timidly, and sneakingly, through the streets, usually seen hunting in couples, and looking as if conscious their pursuit was criminal, or, at the least, illegal.
All that is over now; the ban removed, the boast unkept—to all appearance forgotten! Now they stalk boldly abroad, or saunter in squads, exhibiting their shorn crowns and pallid faces, without fear or shame; instead, triumphantly flouting their vestments in public walks or parks, or loitering in the vestibules of convents and monasteries, which begin to show thick over the land—threatening us with a curse as that anterior to the time of bluff King Hal. No one now thinks it strange to see shovel-hatted priest, or sandalled monk—no matter in what part of England, nor would wonder at one of either being resident upon Wyeside. Father Rogier, one of the former, is there with similar motive, and for the same purpose, his sort are sent everywhere—to enslave the souls of men and get money out of their purses, in order that other men, princes, and priests like himself, may lead luxurious lives, without toil and by trickery. The same old story, since the beginning of the world, or man’s presence upon it. The same craft as the rain maker of South Africa, or the medicine man of the North American Indian; differing only in some points of practice; the religious juggler of a higher civilisation, finding his readiest tools not in roots, snake-skins, and rattles, but the weakness of woman. Through this, as by sap and mine, many a strong citadel has been carried, after bidding defiance to the boldest and most determined assault.